10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 74: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

72—-—— “Here he comes, the lucky stiff!’ Another spoke: “Yeah, wouldn’t a bum like him get all the breaks!” The evil scowl] on Shane’s face grew darker. Why were they all looking at him, he wondered. He strode over to the lunch counter and sat down, a big oxlike man with a thick neck. The suit he had on was shabby. Men, sonie of them in shirt sleeves and carrying billiard cues, gathered around him. “You won Pop’s annual raffle, Shane,” one said. The others joined in with congratulations, many of them grudgingly. The scowl on Shane’s heavily seamed face did not lighten. He laid coarse, hairy hands on the counter- top. “Yeah? What the hell did I win, anyway, Pop?” he asked. “Pop” Marvin, standing behind the counter in a white apron, was smiling. His jovial, thick-jowled face fairly beamed. : “You won a nice case of whisky,” he said. “I got it in the back room for you.” Shane turned his head aside and spat on the floor. ‘‘Hell—is that what I won? I ain’t had a drink since—” A little man at Shane’s side finished the sentence for him. “Since the time you got drunk an’ talked yerself into a two-year stretch. You went around braggin’ how you’d stuck up Rogers’ drug store with a ‘gun that wasn’t loaded!” Shane lurched from the stool. He reached out, grabbed the little man by the shirt front. He shook him un- til his teeth rattled. Shane never liked to be reminded of the time he had spent behind bars. “You better learn to keep that trap of yours shut!” he snarled. He gave the frightened man a final shake be- fore releasing him. A tall, weedy-looking youth with a swarthy complexion and sharp fea- tures pushed his way to the front. A cigarette dangled from his weak 10-STORY DETECTIVE — *———— mouth. It was Rick Vargo, a hanger- on around the club. “I sold you the winning ticket, Shane,” he said insinuatingly. “I guess you’re gonna cut me in, ain’t yah?” Shane looked the youth over con- temptuously. “Like hell, I am! I paid cash for that ticket, didn’t I?” Vargo stood his ground. He started to appeal to the others. Shane took a step forward and slammed the dark- faced youth a terrific blow on the side of the head with his open palm. Var- go was knocked sideways. His legs tangled and he went down. Shane stood over him, his lips curling deri- sively. “You gotta nerve—trying to chisel in on me! You damn little stool pigeon!” Vargo crouched on the floor, his black, pin-point eyes flashing hatred up at Shane. Shane sneered again and then turned away. “Well, boys,” he said, “I got a case of whisky for sale. Who’ll give me twenty bucks?” Nobody answered. “Fifteen, then.” A man playing pinochle over at a table called out: ‘““Twelve-fifty.” Shane’s face showed disgust. ‘““What a bunch of cheap-skates! All right, Ill take it.” The pinochle player rose and came over, peeling bills from a roll. With the money in his hands, a change came over Shane. His hard features twisted into a crooked smile. He creased the bills several times in his thick, hairy fingers. “This is my lucky day,” he said. “‘I played two nags this afternoon and both of ’em came in. Now I won the raffle. Gimme a hamburger and ccffee, Pop.” HILE he was eating, he watched a group of men cius- tered around a gambling machine at the back of the clubroom. The men were taking turns inserting slugs and jerking the lever down. They played comicbook CO